A wise man once wrote about being seduced by the world, and having the freedom to travel it as he wished. I bet Anthony Bourdain never traveled from Salem, Massachusetts to Prague in less than five seconds. And if he did, I imagine he'd also struggle not to lose his (late) lunch.

  The world tilted sideways the moment we stepped through Garrick's dimensional door into the place he called “The Ways.” My stomach did something akin to an olympic gymnastics routine (with several impressive flips), and my vision blurred suddenly like I was five shots in on a whiskey bottle. The cobblestones beneath my feet felt wrong, the shift from the hardwood of the Crossroads Tavern, instantly to ancient cobblestone was the final straw. Reality, it seems, was still catching up with the fact that I was suddenly halfway across the world.

  I stumbled forward, my arms windmilling to regain my balance, and would've face-planted if Garrick hadn't caught my elbow.

  "Easy there, partner," he said, steadying me with the kind of casual strength that reminded me he was well removed from usual mortal limitations. "Your body's just recalibrating. Happens to everyone their first time through The Ways."

  "Recali—" I swallowed hard, fighting the urge to introduce Prague to the burger I'd eaten two hours and several thousand miles ago. "What the hell does that even mean?"

  "Well, you see, your molecular structure had to—"

  "In English, Garrick."

  He grinned. "Time gets mad when you fast travel. Your body's just letting time know you're all caught up now."

  I stared at him. "That explanation was worse. What are we, in a Bethesda game?"

  Garrick shrugged. "You'll get used to it. By your tenth trip through The Ways, you won't even feel queasy."

  "That's not reassuring." I took a deep breath, then another, willing my stomach to call a wrap to its mat routine. The nausea was finally beginning to fade, and was soon replaced by a bone-deep weariness that felt like jet lag's grumpy mother in law.

  Then the smells hit me. Oh man. Talk about my gut keying in with my one track mind.

  Smoked pork, faint but unmistakable, carried on the night air from somewhere nearby. I assumed it was probably a street vendor packing up shop for the evening. Only a cook could go from nauseous and ready to hurl, to wondering where the hell I could get some of that pork.

  I straightened up, Garrick's hand falling away from my arm, and finally looked around.

  We were standing in a square. Not a big one, but I could tell that this place was somewhere important. In fact, I was pretty sure I’d seen it before in a picture, or an online video. Cobblestones spread out beneath my feet, uneven and worn smooth by countless footsteps. Gas lamps (like, actual gas lamps, not the electric kind designed to look old-fashioned) cast pools of warm amber light that would have given the quiet square a cozy feel, if the nearby shadows didn’t give off such a feeling of unease to me.

  And dominating one side of the square, bathed in floodlights that made it glow against the night sky, was St. George's Basilica.

  I'd seen pictures of European churches before. Hell, Salem had its share of colonial architecture. But this was different. The building's facade was painted a deep, russet red that looked almost alive in the artificial light, like the walls themselves were blushing. Romanesque towers flanked the entrance, their stone a pale cream that contrasted sharply with the red, and the whole structure radiated a kind of ancient authority that made The Crossroads Tavern look like a strip mall in comparison.

  "Beautiful, isn't it?" Garrick said, following my gaze. He swept his arm in an exaggerated tour-guide gesture. "Built in the tenth century, expanded in the thirteenth, survived wars, fires, and more political upheavals than you can count. And if you look closely at that tower on the left, you can see where—"

  "Garrick. Why are we here? You mentioned something about Vampires and Ghosts?"

  "Right. Business first, history lessons later." He dropped the act, though I caught the hint of genuine enthusiasm in his eyes. This guy really did love this stuff. "We're here because the local vampire elder summoned me. Prince Samuel Bruzek, current ruler of the Vampire Territory of Romania—"

  "Wait, we're in Prague," I corrected, hell even I knew Prague wasn’t in Romania.

  "Czech Republic, yes. But vampire territories don't follow mortal borders. Samuel's domain extends across most of Eastern Europe. Very old blood, very powerful, very not someone you want angry at you." Garrick rocked back on his heels, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. "Anyway, he's being accused of a crime, and a damn pretty serious one, apparently. One that could start a war."

  I waited for him to elaborate. He didn't.

  "Don’t you mean ‘pretty damn’ instead—Never mind. What crime are we talking about here?" I finally asked.

  Garrick shrugged. "I didn't ask."

  I closed my eyes and counted to three. Opened them. "You didn't ask what he's accused of?"

  "He said he was innocent. That was good enough for me."

  "Garrick." I said rubbing my temples, a headache already forming behind my eyes that had nothing to do with interdimensional travel sickness. "What if he's not innocent? What if he's guilty of whatever he's accused of? By offering to help before you even know what happened, you've already picked a side. We just lost our neutrality before we even got here."

  He blinked at me. Once. Twice. Then his expression shifted into something thoughtful, almost sheepish. "Huh. Yeah, okay. I can see how that might be a problem."

  "Might be?"

  "But what if he is innocent?" Garrick's enthusiasm came back, undeterred. "It's not a bad thing to be owed a favor by a vampire prince. These are the kinds of connections that—Mac, are you listening to me?"

  I wasn't. Because I'd just noticed the woman standing at the opposite end of the square.

  She hadn't been there a second ago. I was sure of it. The square had been empty except for us, just pools of lamplight and deep shadows and the quiet hush that settles over old cities after midnight. But now there was a woman, maybe thirty yards away, wearing a charcoal gray blazer and slacks that would've looked at home in any business district. Her dark hair was pulled back in a neat bun, and even from this distance, I could see her watching us with the kind of focused attention that made my skin prickle.

  "Garrick," I said quietly. "We've got company."

  His hand was immediately on my shoulder, pulling me half a step back. The casual, goofy hero persona evaporated, replaced by something harder, more alert. "Stay behind me."

  "Who is she?" I asked as she eyed us both up and down.

  "A Vampire." He said it like it was obvious. "See how she's not breathing? And the way she's standing perfectly still?"

  I squinted. The woman hadn't moved. Hadn't shifted her weight or adjusted her stance or done any of the small unconscious movements humans make. She was as motionless as a statue.

  "How did she get there without us hearing her?" I whispered.

  "That's what I'd like to—"

  Someone cleared their throat directly beside us.

  I jumped. I actually jumped, my heart slamming into my throat—and stumbled backward. My heel caught on the uneven cobblestones and I barely caught my balance and saved myself from ending up on my ass. I hate when people sneak up on me.

  A man stood less than three feet away. Tall, angular, wearing a black suit that looked like it cost more than three months of my paycheck (including tips). His pale face was all sharp and angular, and his eyes an unnatural yellow, the color of old amber. He smiled, revealing teeth that were just slightly too perfect, too white and a bit too long and sharp at the eye teeth.

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  "Because we can be right next to you," he said pleasantly, "and you still wouldn't see us coming unless we let you."

  "Okay, enough with the theatrics," Garrick snapped, his voice carrying the kind of authority I'd heard him use exactly once before when he'd been trying to intimidate the Storm Wraiths at The Crossroads. "We're here at the summons of your Elder. Prince Samuel Bruzek requested my presence. So how about you stop with the spooky parlor tricks and take us to him?"

  The woman was suddenly standing next to the man. No transition, no movement I could track. One moment she was across the square, the next she was right there, close enough that I could smell her perfume. It smelled like roses, and faintly wrong like rot. I instantly took a distrust to her.

  She smiled, and it wasn't friendly. "We were told only one person would be coming. Garrick the Gallant." Her gaze slid to me, curious and cold. "This one wasn't mentioned."

  "This is Mac," Garrick said. "My new partner."

  "Partner?" The man raised an eyebrow. "What exactly does he—"

  "Logistics coordinator," I interrupted, finding my voice even though my heart was still hammering. I held up my notebook—the one I'd taken with me when we left The Crossroads earlier. "I'm also recording our adventures. For posterity."

  The woman studied me with the kind of intensity that made me feel like she was reading my entire life story from the way I stood. "A human. How... quaint."

  "As stated before, only one of you was invited," the man said. His tone was mild, conversational, but there was steel underneath. "The Prince will want to meet this one. See what manner of creature would willingly partner with Garrick the Gallant."

  I wasn't sure if that was a compliment or an insult.

  Garrick opened his mouth (probably to say something that would make everything worse) so I jumped in first. "I'm just here to help Garrick. I'm not on anyone's side because I don't even know what the sides are yet."

  "We shall see," the woman said. There was something in her voice that might have been amusement. Or threat. Maybe both. "Come. The Prince is expecting your company."

  She turned and started walking toward the building nearest the Basilica. The man gestured for us to follow, falling into step behind us like a particularly well-dressed prison guard.

  I leaned closer to Garrick as we walked. "This is going well," I muttered.

  "It could be worse."

  "How, exactly?"

  "They haven't killed us yet."

  "That's a low bar, Garrick."

  "I work with what I've got."

  The woman led us to a nondescript building tucked against the Basilica's shadow. Three stories of weathered stone, windows dark, a wooden door that looked like it didn’t open often. We followed her into a narrow alley beside it, the walls so close I could've touched both sides if I stretched out my arms.

  She stopped in front of a blank stone wall. Just stood there, staring at it like she was waiting for something.

  Then lines of light appeared.

  They traced across the stone in geometric patterns—runes, maybe, or some kind of circuit diagram designed by someone who understood magick way better than I did. The light was pale blue, cold, and it made the shadows in the alley seem to dance when the unnatural light hit them.

  A section of wall slid aside with a grinding sound that made my teeth itch. Behind it, a staircase descended into darkness.

  "Oh good," I said. "A creepy underground tunnel. Because this wasn't ominous enough already."

  "After you," the man said, and it definitely wasn't a suggestion.

  Garrick went first, because apparently cosmic heroes don't believe in self-preservation instincts. I followed, my hand trailing along the damp stone wall for balance as we descended. The hidden door ground shut behind us, cutting off what little light the alley had provided. In the pitch black it’d be a miracle if I made it down these steps without falling and breaking my neck

  Then torches flared to life along the walls. Real flames, burning in iron sconces, casting dancing shadows that made the narrow stairwell feel like it was breathing, all came on in quick succession, lighting a path down the stairs into the catacombs below. The stairs kept going down, twisting deeper into the earth with each turn, and the air grew colder with every step.

  "We're completely at their mercy down here," I whispered to Garrick. "This feels like a mistake."

  The male vampire, who kept pace behind us, close enough that I could hear his footsteps even though vampires probably didn't need to make sound when they walked…let out a soft snort.

  Garrick frantically pointed at his ear, trying to warn me, but it was too late.

  "You're already in trouble," the man said, "if you didn't realize vampire hearing is five times better than any human's."

  I mentally kicked myself. That was literally one of the first things I'd learned about vampires, back when I'd served one at The Crossroads. They could hear a heartbeat from across a room, could track conversations through walls. Of course they could hear me whispering. Way to go Mac, already fucking up.

  "And for the record," he continued, his voice echoing off the stone walls, "you were at our mercy the second you entered the Basilica square. If we wanted to harm you, it would already be done. For now, you're protected by guest rights." A pause. "For now."

  "What do you mean, 'for now'?" I asked.

  "That will depend on how your reception with the Prince goes."

  I looked at Garrick. He gave me a small shrug that somehow managed to convey sorry, this is just how vampire politics works.

  Great. Perfect. Fantastic. One thing Bourdain failed to mention is that my first adventure in foreign travel could end with my neck ripped out. I guess he never partied with Vampires.

  The stairs finally ended in a long corridor lit by more torches. The flames were enclosed in metal housings—ornate, expensive-looking things that cast creature shaped shadows on the walls. I knew from my limited vampire knowledge that they were incredibly flammable, that fire was one of the few things that could truly kill them. Keeping open flames down here was either monumentally stupid or a deliberate show of power in the form of IDGAF.

  Based on the woman's confident stride, I was betting on power.

  The corridor opened into what I could only describe as an underground lounge.

  It was massive. Vaulted ceilings supported by stone pillars, plush furniture arranged in intimate clusters, art on the walls that looked old enough to belong in museums. Some of which, I’m fairly certain, went missing in World War Two. Vampires lounged on velvet cushions and leather chairs, some smoking from long pipes that filled the air with a sweet, cloying scent I recognized from my worst foster home—opium. Others sat at a polished bar, drinking from crystal wine glasses filled with liquid too dark and thick to be actual wine. Behind the bar, racks held bottles with handwritten labels: dates, locations, presumably blood types or vintage years or whatever the hell vampires catalogued.

  The smell hit me in waves. Old stone and mildew from the moisture on the walls. There must be a river underground around here somewhere. Burning candles and that sickly-sweet opium smoke. And underneath it all, something rotten. Not fresh rot, but the kind that had been there so long it had become part of the air itself. The scent of the undead.

  It was decadent. Wealthy. Powerful. Everything about this place screamed Samuel can get you whatever you want, as long as you're loyal.

  And every single vampire in the room was watching us.

  "Prince Samuel will see you shortly," the woman said. She gestured to a seating area near one of the pillars. "Wait here."

  Then she and the man disappeared into the crowd, leaving us alone in a room full of predators.

  I sat down on the nearest chair (some kind of antique thing with carved armrests) and tried not to think about the fact that we were god-knows-how-far underground, surrounded by creatures that could kill us before we even realized we were in danger.

  Garrick remained standing, hands in his pockets, looking around the room with open curiosity.

  "So," I said quietly. "Still think this is going well?"

  He grinned. "We're not dead yet."

  "Still a low bar."

  "Still clearing it, though."

  I pulled out my notebook, more for something to do with my hands than because I actually thought I'd be able to write anything coherent. My fingers were shaking slightly…adrenaline, probably, mixed with the lingering weirdness from traveling through The Ways. That’s what I told myself, anyway.

  This might turn into the shortest adventure I'd ever been on. Assuming, of course, that I lived long enough to write about it.

  I glanced at Garrick, who was now examining one of the paintings on the wall like we were at an art gallery instead of in a vampire's underground lair.

  "Garrick," I said.

  "Hmm?"

  "Next time you get summoned by an ancient vampire to help with a crime you know nothing about, maybe do some research first?"

  He looked over at me, and for just a moment, I saw genuine understanding in his eyes. Not the heroic bravado or the cosmic confidence, but something real.

  "Yeah," he said. "Noted."

  It wasn't much. But it was something.

  I settled back in the chair and waited to see if we'd survive long enough for me to teach him anything else.

  I looked up from my notes only for my heart to slam into my throat again. The woman vampire who led us here earlier was standing right next to me. I didn’t jump as much this time, but I still jumped. She smirked, enjoying the reaction. Now I knew they were fucking with me, and didn’t bother to hide my distaste for them.

  “Ya know, most people say ‘excuse me’ before inviting themselves to sit down,” I grumbled.

  She flashed that arrogant smirk even wider, “Good thing I’m not people at all. Come along, both of you, the Prince will see you now. He’s quite eager to meet our surprise guest.”

  She rose and beckoned us to follow as she headed for an exit on the opposite side of the lounge. As we moved to keep pace behind her, I ran through all I knew of vampire etiquette in my head. The emphasis on the Prince wanting to meet me did nothing to settle my nerves. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I might not make it out of this den of excess alive. Several of the vampires watched as I walked away…some licking their lips like I was a walking steak.

  I suddenly wished I had a stake of another kind stashed in my pocket. Just in case.